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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282896">Pull Me Up, Make Me Whole</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes'>sospes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Utter Filth (With Feelings) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bondage, Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Enemies With Benefits, Honestly This Is Really Just Filth, Humiliation, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:07:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282896</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five months after their encounter at Cidaris' most exclusive sex party, Geralt and Jaskier run into Valdo Marx at a music festival in Oxenfurt. It goes about how you'd imagine.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx, Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Utter Filth (With Feelings) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>863</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Abby's Witcher Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pull Me Up, Make Me Whole</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I thought that <i><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014528">Break Me Down, Hold Me Up</a></i> was the filthiest thing I'd ever write. I was wrong.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“There’s a music competition being held in Oxenfurt next month,” Jaskier says. He’s examining his nails as he does so, picking at the broken tip of his thumbnail, trying desperately to seem uninterested, but Geralt knows him more than well enough to see through that particular façade. </p><p>“And?” Geralt asks dryly. He’s not about to hand whatever this is to Jaskier on a plate.</p><p>Jaskier shrugs, drops his hand to his lute case. “We’re not too far away,” he says, “and I happen to know that we’ve got a fair bit of coin squirrelled away after your last string of jobs. Might be nice to relax for a few days? Unwind a little?” </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Do you want to go perform at this music competition in Oxenfurt?” </p><p>Jaskier meets his gaze almost fiercely. “I do,” he says. </p><p>“Then we’ll go to Oxenfurt,” Geralt answers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Maybe it is. </p><p>Jaskier deflates, and smiles. “Oh!” he says brightly. “I thought you’d take more convincing than that. You usually hate cities.” </p><p>Geralt just hums, and rides onwards. </p><p>At the next crossroads, they take the road towards Oxenfurt. </p><p> </p><p>It’s been five months since the party in Cidaris, and their ‘periodic’ fucking has somewhat escalated. Sometimes it feels like they fuck on every horizontal surface they find, and against a good few vertical ones, too – soft beds, wooden floors, grassy clearings in the woods, tree trunks, the wall at the back of the stables. Geralt is learning every way there is to take Jaskier apart, with his mouth, with his fingers, with his cock, learning exactly what he wants and exactly what he needs. </p><p>They still haven’t really talked about whether there are any emotions involved – but Geralt has started to notice things a little more. Like how Jaskier never chases barmaids and stablehands anymore. How he will watch Geralt when he thinks he’s not looking, blue eyes bright and attentive. How sometimes, when Geralt’s fucking him into the mattress or the loam or the tree bark, the moan of Geralt’s name on his lips feels like more than just sheer pleasure. </p><p>Geralt’s also noticed that he sleeps better when he can feel the warmth of Jaskier’s body, that he seeks out Jaskier’s smell in crowded rooms, that he never has to hold back who he is or what he wants when they’re in bed together. </p><p>But they still haven’t exactly <i>talked</i>. </p><p> </p><p>The competition is a three-day affair, and dozens of minstrels and poets and troubadours have come from across the continent to compete. Jaskier is in his element, greeting old friends, exchanging catty asides with old rivals, and Geralt watches him perform and perform and perform with something that might almost be fondness in his chest. </p><p>Jaskier wins, of course, and he takes Geralt as his guest to the celebratory banquet afterwards. “After all,” he says, adjusting the lay of Geralt’s collar with those long, sure fingers, “you’re my muse, Geralt of Rivia. It only seems fitting that I flaunt you to my vanquished competitors.” </p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Yours, am I?” he asks, and only realises after it’s out of his mouth how intimate it sounds. </p><p>Colour flushes bright on Jaskier’s cheeks. “You’re my Witcher, I’m your bard,” he says, skipping over the deeper meaning. “Everyone knows that.”</p><p>Geralt hums, and doesn’t press any further. </p><p>The banquet is a solid affair, good food, good wine, and a shitload of musical types networking, bitching, and complaining about each other. Geralt realises after five minutes that he’s going to kill someone if he has to engage in another conversation about baroque pitch and lute tuning—which Jaskier seems to fucking love, for some godsforsaken reason—so he grabs a glass of wine and finds a corner with a suitable vantage point of the whole room. It’s a whirlwind of bright colour and impractical fabrics in here, men and women peacocking in their lurid finery, bursts of song erupting from knots of singers only to fall apart into bursts of laughter as the alcohol flows freely – and Geralt thinks it’s all ridiculous, but Jaskier seems happy. </p><p>Jaskier seems happy, and that’s all that matters. </p><p>Geralt sips his wine, and watches. </p><p>Late in the evening, Jaskier comes and finds him. His cheeks are flushed with excitement and alcohol, and he laughs to find Geralt in his corner, reaches out and squeezes his arm with careless affection. “Sitting in the corner and brooding, I see?” he asks, lips split in a broad smile. “Good to see you’re fulfilling the good people’s expectations.” </p><p>“You seem to be having a good enough time for both of us,” Geralt says, wry and dry. </p><p>Jaskier snorts. “It’s necessary,” he says. “Networking, making contacts. I’ve already arranged bookings for three more courts this winter – should keep me in warm beds and hot meals while you’re tucked away at Kaer Morhen.” Something twists in Geralt’s chest unexpectedly at the idea of separating for the winter, but it’s what they’ve always done, of course, so why should this year be any different? “But,” Jaskier continues, drawing out the syllables, “there is one interesting thing.” </p><p>Geralt raises an eyebrow. </p><p>“Don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Jaskier says, affecting nonchalance, “but Valdo Marx is here.” He cocks his head. “Over by those dreadful Nilfgaardian violinists.” There’s a gleam in Jaskier’s eyes. “I beat him today,” he says. “In the final.”</p><p>Geralt feels a curl of heat in his belly. “Jaskier,” he says, low and dangerous. “Tell me you didn’t bring us all the way to Oxenfurt just so you could bait Valdo Marx.” </p><p>“I didn’t bring us all the way to Oxenfurt just so I could bait Valdo Marx,” Jaskier says obediently, then smiles a wicked smile. “But it is a bonus.” He pauses, presses his palm flat to Geralt’s chest. “I was thinking,” he says slowly, “of inviting him to join us tonight. If you don’t mind. Could be fun.” </p><p>Geralt smells it, then, the distinctive scent of Jaskier’s arousal, and he rumbles, low in his chest. “You seemed to enjoy it the last time he worked his frustrations out on you,” he says. </p><p>Jaskier’s eyes spark. “Is that a yes?” </p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says, and there’s that warmth in his chest again at the beaming grin that spreads across Jaskier’s lips. </p><p>“Great!” he says, voice already going husky. “I’ll be right back.” </p><p>Geralt watches as Jaskier weaves his way through the crowds, as he navigates well-wishers and envious rivals, as he makes his way unerringly to the tall, blond troubadour at the other side of the room that Geralt barely recognises with his clothes on. Marx doesn’t seem surprised to see him, greets him with a familiar curl to his lip, then, after a few words, glances up at where Geralt is standing. It’s loud enough in here that even Geralt’s mutant hearing can’t pick out what they’re saying, but Marx’s nod is more than clear enough. </p><p>Geralt takes a breath as Jaskier comes back to him. “He knows where we’re staying,” he says, a flush in his skin that’s nothing to do with the warmth of the ballroom anymore. “He’ll join us soon.” </p><p>Geralt catches Jaskier’s arm, just lightly. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, quiet enough that it’s a question just for them. </p><p>Jaskier’s gaze is bright and warm and trusting. “I want this,” he says. “I’ll tell you if I don’t, you know I will.” </p><p>Geralt nods, and for one protracted moment all he wants to do is pull Jaskier to him and kiss him in front of all these people, in front of Valdo Marx, in front of the world. But he doesn’t. Because they haven’t talked about emotions. </p><p>“Come on,” Jaskier says, lips spreading in a sly smile. “Let’s go get ready for our guest.” </p><p> </p><p>The other thing that Geralt has learned about Jaskier since that party in Cidaris is that he likes it really quite a lot when Geralt takes control. The first time, he pinned Jaskier’s wrists to the bed and watched with interest as his pupils dilated with excitement. The second time, he wrapped a careful hand around Jaskier’s throat as he fucked him with long thrusts, and the moan that came out of Jaskier’s mouth was pure ecstasy. The third time, he impulsively bound Jaskier’s hands behind his back with a spare set of Roach’s reins and made him come so hard he couldn’t form coherent sentences for fifteen minutes afterwards. </p><p>It’s only been escalating from there. </p><p> </p><p>They’re staying in a university-owned flat reserved for visiting professors, a flat with two bedrooms even though they’ve only used one. Jaskier carefully packs away his lute and hides his lyric notebook when they get back—“Just in case that rank amateur tries to steal any of my songs,” Jaskier says. “He’s a sore loser.”—and Geralt just settles back in an armchair, and waits. </p><p>Jaskier studies him for a moment. “You know,” he says, after a moment, “you don’t have to do this.” </p><p>Geralt pauses. “Do what?” </p><p>“This,” Jaskier says, gesturing broadly between them, the room, and the door, which Geralt imagines is supposed to represent Marx. “You don’t have to humour me if you don’t want to.” </p><p>Geralt thinks about that party in Cidaris, about Jaskier limp and boneless in his arms, about the slap of Marx’s palm against Jaskier’s abused arse and the slick sound of his cock fucking into Jaskier’s body. “I know,” he says, feeling arousal start to pool low in his belly. “I want to.” </p><p>Jaskier’s pupils are black and heavy, his scent spiking with lust, with something else. “Geralt,” he says, almost like there’s another thought on his tongue, something else that needs to be said – but then there’s a loud rap on the door, and the atmosphere shifts. Expectation. Intensity. </p><p>Geralt’s mouth is oddly dry. </p><p>Jaskier opens the door, and says, “Valdo.” with a curious mix of disdain and heat in his voice. </p><p>“Julian,” Marx says, and steps inside, a snakeskin bag slung over his shoulder. His clothes are a vibrant silver-and-black silk which clashes loudly against Jaskier’s green-and-gold – and he looks Jaskier up and down, head to toe, closes the door behind him and says, “I can’t believe you thought that was an appropriate outfit to wear to the autumn festival prize banquet. You look like a yokel.” </p><p>Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “Jealousy suits you, Valdo,” he says simply, and flashes him a blinding smile. </p><p>Marx's lip curls, and he looks over to Geralt, still sitting lax in the armchair. “Witcher,” he says by way of greeting. </p><p>“Troubadour,” Geralt answers in kind. </p><p>“So,” Marx says, looking back to Jaskier. “You invited me for some fun, Julian.” He reaches out, runs a fingertip down Jaskier’s jaw, presses his palm lightly against Jaskier’s voicebox. “What exactly does that entail?” </p><p>Something flares in Geralt’s gut at the sight of Marx’s hand at Jaskier’s throat. “First rule,” he says, not loud, not forceful, not angry. “You don’t touch him without asking me first.” </p><p>Marx drops his hand and looks to Geralt. “And if he asks me to touch him?” he asks, head cocked to one side. “If he begs?”</p><p>“You wait until I say you can,” Geralt answers. </p><p>Marx nods. “Anything off-limits?” </p><p>Geralt looks at Jaskier for a moment, at his bright, dark eyes, at his full, red lips, at the flush in his cheeks and the tension starting to thrum in his shoulders. “No,” he says slowly. “But don’t start anything—”</p><p>“Without asking you first, yes, Witcher, I understand,” Marx sneers. “I’m not a fool, you don’t need to tell me a hundred times.” </p><p>Geralt just studies Marx for a long moment, unspeaking, until he drops his gaze, cheeks flushing. Jaskier laughs softly, quietly, and Geralt can practically <i>feel</i> the jealousy and resentment vibrating in Marx’s body, tight and pent-up. “What’s in the bag?” he asks. </p><p>Marx’s expression shifts. “I thought I might bring some options with me,” he says. “I have a lot of things I’d like to do to him, with your permission, of course, <i>Sir Witcher</i>.” The sarcasm is dripping. “I thought he might like to choose.” </p><p>Jaskier moans in the back of his throat. </p><p>Geralt gets to his feet and indicates the unused bedroom. “In there,” he says. “Lay them out on the bed. And Jaskier? Take off your clothes.” </p><p>Marx’s eyes gleam, and he goes into the bedroom, footsteps loud and sharp on the carpeted floors. </p><p>Jaskier is already fumbling with the fastenings of his doublet, pushing the bright fabric down off his shoulders and draping it over the back of another armchair. Geralt steps closer to him, watches as he shrugs out of his shirt, unlaces his trousers, pulls off his boots, watches as Jaskier strips down to nothing but pale skin, flushed in the warmth, smooth to the touch. There’s a scar on his right hip from a stray wyvern’s claw two years ago, another on his thigh from some childhood accident that he won’t tell Geralt about, a smattering of freckles across his shoulders. He looks up at Geralt when he’s fully naked, eyes blue as the summer sky, and doesn’t say anything. His cock is already half-hard. </p><p>Geralt licks his lips. “The bedroom,” he says, and Jaskier nods, for once wordless. </p><p>Marx has emptied the contents of his snakeskin bag onto the neatly made bed, and he looks up as they enter. His smile is wicked as he looks Jaskier up and down again. “Excited already, Pancratz?” he asks softly. “Looking forward to me fucking you so hard you’ll feel it for days?” </p><p>“Looking forward to you trying,” Jaskier says, somehow managing to sound bored even though his cock quite clearly gives away his rising interest. </p><p>Marx laughs, then gestures towards the bed. “What do you think, Witcher?” he asks. “Anything there you’ll let me use?” </p><p>Geralt settles a hand at the back of Jaskier’s neck, a thumb rubbing through his dark hair. Jaskier leans into the touch, his head falling back, exposing his throat, and there’s such trust in the gesture that Geralt’s stomach twists. “Choose what you want,” he says quietly. “Leave them on the bed. Put the rest back in the bag.”  </p><p>Jaskier nods, and goes to the bed. </p><p>Marx’s collection is… extensive. There are dildos and cock-rings, plugs and beads, neatly-wrapped rounds of rope and a small pile of slender silver chains—among other things—all laid out next to each other in exacting order, all clean and shining and clearly well-maintained. Jaskier stands at the foot of the bed and studies the array for a moment, then picks up the snakeskin bag and starts to put things away. Marx makes the occasional noise of disappointment when things disappear, a large dildo, a slim set of beads, and when Jaskier returns a leather collar to the bag, Marx snorts, says, “Gods, are you <i>trying</i> to bore me, Julian?” </p><p>Jaskier glances up at him, a mocking smile on his lips. “Worried, Valdo?” he asks. “Not sure you can live up to your big promises without all your toys?” </p><p>Marx’s eyes flash. “I can’t wait until you’re choking on my cock,” he says, flat and laced with want. “It’s all I could think about while you were performing today: how you’d be making much prettier noises sucking my cock than prancing about on that festival stage.” </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice rough at the image, at the thought, at the promise. “Get on with it.” </p><p>Jaskier turns his back on Marx, breath hitching faster, and gets on with it. He puts the bag carefully down in the corner of the room when he’s done, leaving three things sitting on the bedspread: a coiled length of slim, smooth rope, a blindfold, and a dark leather riding crop. </p><p>“How <i>basic</i>,” Marx drawls, arms folded. </p><p>Geralt ignores him. “How do you want to be tied?” he asks, gaze heavy on Jaskier. </p><p>“Hands behind my back,” Jaskier answers immediately. “And then the rope around my chest.” </p><p>Geralt nods. “Good,” he says. He goes to the bed, grabs one of the pillows, then tosses it on the carpeted floor at Jaskier’s feet. “Kneel,” he says, and doesn’t miss the ecstatic flutter of Jaskier’s eyelashes as he obeys. </p><p>Marx laughs softly. “I never thought I’d see you so <i>obedient</i>, Julian,” he says. “I have to say, it suits you. Knowing your place, knowing your <i>purpose</i>.” </p><p>Jaskier groans, lips spit-slick. “Gods, Valdo, do you never shut up? Maybe if you put some of that effort into your songs, you wouldn’t be the eternal second place.” </p><p>Geralt ignores their bickering. “Jaskier,” he says, picking up the blindfold. “Ready?” </p><p>Jaskier looks up at him. “Ready,” he says, his eyes bright, warm, pupils wide. </p><p>Geralt settles the blindfold over his eyes, fastens it securely at the back of his head, then runs his hand through Jaskier’s hair and lets him settle for a moment. “I’m going to tie you up now,” he says. “Tell me if anything is too tight.” </p><p>Jaskier nods. Geralt can smell the lust burning on his skin, the arousal, and he fetches the rope, kneels down behind Jaskier and gets to work. He binds Jaskier’s wrists behind his back, then loops the rope around his body at several points, across his stomach, his elbow, his chest, pulling his arms tight to his sides. The rope is smooth to the touch, clearly expensive, and Geralt makes sure that it runs tight across Jaskier’s nipples, makes sure that it rubs and pinches in exactly the right spots. “Okay?” Geralt asks, resting his hand at the back of Jaskier’s neck again, feeling the thrumming of his pulse in his fingertips. </p><p>“Okay,” Jaskier agrees, voice hoarse. </p><p>Marx moves to stand in front of Jaskier, his gaze heavy, eyes dark. “You should see yourself like this, Julian,” he says, slowly starting to unlace his trousers. “Helpless. And so fucking needy – your cock is so hard right now, isn’t it? But I’m not going to touch it until I’m satisfied with you, and you’re not going to come until you’re given permission, do you understand?” </p><p>Jaskier groans, and nods. </p><p>“Good,” Marx says, and looks to Geralt. “I want to fuck his mouth,” he says. “May I?”</p><p>Geralt gets to his feet, goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He watches Jaskier for a moment, watches as he sways a little, as he finds his balance, then he smells the air, smells want and need and heat. “You may,” he says, and settles in to watch. </p><p>Marx takes his cock out of his trousers, doesn’t strip off that silver-and-black finery, just takes a handful of Jaskier’s hair and says, “Open your mouth, Julian.” Jaskier moans and obeys, parting his lips – but before he’s had a chance to take a breath, Marx stays true to his word and fucks his mouth, brutal from the start. </p><p>Jaskier has no way to brace himself with his hands bound, no way to hold himself up, so he’s wholly reliant on Marx’s hands in his hair, holding his head still as he pumps his cock in and out of his mouth obscenely fast. Saliva gathers at the corners of Jaskier’s mouth, drooling down from his lips, and before long he’s making tight, choking moans in the back of his throat. Marx laughs, bitter and victorious. “That’s it,” he half-sings, winding his fingers tighter in Jaskier’s hair. “Sing for me, Julian. Those moans, like that, around my cock. This is the best you’ve ever fucking sounded, do you know that? All that <i>training</i>, all that <i>practice</i> – but <i>this</i> is what you were made to do.” </p><p>Jaskier smells of arousal and heat and lust, even as saliva drips from his mouth to splatter against his knees.</p><p>Marx pushes so far into Jaskier’s mouth that his nose is practically buried in his blond pubic hair, a look of fierce joy on his face, then pulls back, pulls away, holding Jaskier up by his hair as he pants for breath. “Have you missed my cock, Julian?” Marx asks sweetly, rubbing a thumb across Jaskier’s lips. </p><p>Jaskier whimpers. “<i>Yes</i>.” </p><p>“Good,” Marx says, flat and self-satisfied. He pulls harder on Jaskier’s hair, dragging him up, off his heels, then looks up at Geralt. “The crop, if you please.” </p><p>Jaskier makes a strangled noise in his throat, and groans, “Geralt, <i>please</i>.” </p><p>Geralt hands Marx the crop. “You stop the moment I tell you,” he says, tone brooking no argument. </p><p>“Of course,” Marx says, nodding slightly, then drags the tip of the crop across Jaskier’s cheek, through the saliva spilled across his lips. “Open,” he says, and when Jaskier opens his mouth he taps the tip lightly against his tongue. Jaskier makes a yelping noise, more surprise than discomfort, and Marx smiles. “There’s more where that came from,” he says, and with a sharp crack slaps the tip of the crop against Jaskier’s right nipple, already pinched from the ropes. Jaskier yelps again, pain sparking in his voice, and Geralt leans forward, assessing. Marx glances at him and holds off for a moment, hand still wound tight in Jaskier’s hair, but there’s no dip in Jaskier’s arousal, no spike of unhappiness, so Geralt sits back, nods for Marx to continue. </p><p>The crop slaps again, against the soft flesh of Jaskier’s inner thigh, bare inches from his cock, and the noise that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth is somewhere between gorgeous and truly obscene. </p><p>“You know,” Marx says, almost conversationally, “I really thought I had it this year?” The crop snaps against Jaskier’s stomach and his left nipple in quick succession, and Jaskier cries out, tries to pull away. Marx holds him in place. “Especially in your first round, Julian. I mean, the song choice? A fucking song about a horse? <i>Really?</i> And then how your voice cracked on that top B?” He tuts, slaps the crop against Jaskier’s cheek. “But apparently the judges disagreed,” he muses, shifts a little so he can crack the tip of the crop against the small of Jaskier’s back. “Did you suck their cocks, too?” he asks. “Did you let them fuck you in exchange for the crown? I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.” He lands two sharp cracks on each side of Jaskier’s arse, four in total. “I guess you have to work with what you have,” he sighs. “Some of us have musical integrity. You have a pretty mouth and an arse that was made to be fucked.”  </p><p>Jaskier groans. “Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he pants, “to justify losing to me. <i>Again</i>.” </p><p>Marx laughs, and snaps the crop sharply across the soles of Jaskier’s feet. </p><p>Jaskier cries out, rears up, and his smell turns sour. </p><p>“Not his feet,” Geralt says, and sees the relief sag through Jaskier’s shoulders. “The rest is fine. Just not his feet.” </p><p>“Interesting,” Marx says, and shifts again, cracks the crop against Jaskier’s inner thigh again. “Given how much running around after your Witcher you do, Julian, I would have thought your feet would be tougher. No matter.” He pauses, then gently rests the tip of the crop against the head of Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier stills immediately, breaths coming harsh in the quiet, and Marx smiles. “That shut you up, didn’t it, Julian?” he says, and drags the tip of the crop along Jaskier’s cock, then snaps it lightly against his pubic bone. Jaskier yelps, but that sourness doesn’t come flooding back. He’s okay. He’s blindfolded, bound, and beaten, and all he wants is more. </p><p>Geralt sits back on the foot of the bed, and watches as Marx snaps the crop down again, and again, and again. Jaskier pants and whines and yelps, a song of pleasure and want, and even as Geralt sees tears slip from beneath the blindfold, sees them trickle to join the saliva around his lips, he can still smell nothing but that <i>need</i>. Marx glances to Geralt occasionally when Jaskier whines a little louder, a little sharper, but Geralt knows he’s okay.</p><p>Until Marx slaps the crop against Jaskier’s nipple one too many times, and then that sourness is back. Jaskier whimpers as Marx pulls his head back, slides the crop up the exposed line of his throat, and Geralt sees as he tries to shy away. </p><p>“Enough,” Geralt says. </p><p>Marx glances up at him. “The crop?” </p><p>Geralt nods. </p><p>Marx runs a hand through Jaskier’s hair, lets him settle back down into his heels. “I’m surprised, Pancratz,” he says. “I didn’t expect you to take that much pain. A soft, pampered fop like you, noble birth, waltzing around the continent with your own personal bodyguard? I thought you’d break down and cry with a single hit.” </p><p>“Happy to disappoint,” Jaskier half-slurs, and Geralt studies him for a moment. His voice is more hazy than he expected – but he’s holding himself upright even without Marx’s help, body littered with blossoming bruises, cock still hard and straining. </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “You alright?” </p><p>Jaskier just breathes for a moment, then his blind eyes turn towards Geralt like a flower seeking the sun. “I’m good,” he says, that slur slipping away. “I’m <i>great</i>.” </p><p>“Well, then,” Marx says, a vicious smile twisting his lips. “Let’s step this up a gear, shall we?” He steps away from Jaskier, tosses the crop carelessly onto the bed, then cocks his eyebrow at Geralt. “I want to fuck your pet now, Witcher,” he says. “If that’s alright with you?” </p><p>Geralt gets to his feet, moves past Marx without a word, and goes to Jaskier. He touches his cheek, his hair, then rests his hand at the back of his neck and studies the pattern of red marks the crop has left across Jaskier’s pale skin. “Do you want that?” he asks quietly, seeing the tremble building in Jaskier’s legs, sore from kneeling for so long. </p><p>Jaskier leans into his touch and nods. “Please,” he says, and then, softer: “<i>Geralt</i>.” </p><p>Marx hums in amusement. “You’ve certainly got him under control, Witcher,” he says. “Care to teach me the secret?” </p><p>Geralt isn’t going to answer that question. “On the bed,” he says, and practically lifts Jaskier up. Jaskier groans as blood rushes back to his legs, stumbles a little until he finds his feet, then goes willingly as Geralt guides him towards the bed. Marx intercepts before they get there, cocks an eyebrow at Geralt. “May I?” </p><p>Geralt hears Jaskier’s breathing ramp up a notch, faster, harder. He nods, and watches carefully as Marx takes Jaskier and puts him where he wants him, bent over the edge of the bed, facedown on the mattress, knees on the carpet. Marx hums to himself as he maps his long-fingered hands across Jaskier’s arse, squeezing the bruised skin. “I am going to fuck you wide open,” he says, and Jaskier lets out a breathy moan. “You’ll like that, won’t you? You cheap little whore.” Jaskier doesn’t answer, but his hips buck a little, rutting his swollen cock against the bedspread – and Marx tuts, pulls Jaskier further off the bed, far enough that his cock hangs in the air, untouched. “No, no, Julian. I told you. You come when you’re given permission – and I don’t think anyone has given you permission, have they?” Marx pauses, then digs his fingernails into Jaskier’s arse. “Have they?” </p><p>Jaskier whimpers, and Geralt settles on the bed next to him, runs a hand through his hair. “No,” Jaskier gasps, practically shaking under Geralt’s hands. “No, no one has.” </p><p>Marx snorts. “Good to know that you’re paying some attention,” he says. He steps away for a moment to fetch the pillow and slot it under Jaskier’s knees—Geralt is momentarily surprised, but isn’t going to complain—then goes to his snakeskin bag, retrieves a bottle of oil and takes out the stopper. “Tell me what you want, Julian,” he says, snide and laughing. “<i>Beg</i> me for it.” </p><p>Jaskier moans. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, his voice shaky. “Please, Valdo. Please, fuck me.” </p><p>Marx catches Geralt’s gaze. “He’s pretty when he begs, isn’t he?” he says, eyebrow raised. “May I oblige him?” </p><p>“You may,” Geralt says, and feels Jaskier shudder under his hands. </p><p>Marx’s smile is wolfish. He slicks up his fingers and works one, then two into Jaskier’s arse, smirking at every moan that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth. “I didn’t expect you to be this fucking <i>tight</i>,” he says, heat rising in his voice. “Then again, I suppose I’m more used to fucking you when you’ve already had half a dozen cocks in you already – gods, you really are such a fucking slut, you know that?” He adds more oil, slides in a third finger, fucks them in and out, faster, faster. Jaskier whines, rubbing his cheek against the bedspread. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” Marx says, cheeks flushing. “Think I could make you come just like this? Without touching your cock once, just from my fingers in your arse?” </p><p>Jaskier keens, tension ratcheting higher in his body, but it isn’t arousal now, no, it’s unease. </p><p>Geralt understands. “Stop teasing him, Marx,” he growls. “Just get your cock in him.” </p><p>At which point, Geralt smells another sudden flood of arousal and realises that, oh, it’s <i>Marx</i>. “I live to obey, Sir Witcher,” he mutters, sarcasm and lust running parallel in his voice, and pauses just long enough to strip off his clothes before slicking up his cock and pushing firmly into Jaskier’s arse. </p><p>Jaskier makes a strangled, ecstatic noise, his bound hands clenching and unclenching behind his back. </p><p>“<i>Fuck</i>, Julian,” Marx gasps. “Gods, I should fuck you like this more often. You’re so <i>tight</i>.” He thrusts once, twice, drawing pants and moans out of Jaskier with every movement. </p><p>And then he stops. </p><p>“<i>Geralt</i>,” Jaskier moans. </p><p>Geralt looks sharply at Marx. “I told you to fuck him,” he says, short and brusque. </p><p>“You did,” Marx agrees, his hands holding Jaskier’s hips tight, not allowing him to move, not allowing him to move <i>at all</i>. “And, if that’s what he wants, I’ll get back to it.” His eyes gleam. “But I have another suggestion.”</p><p>Geralt tips his head, listening to the hitching of Jaskier’s breathing, the surging pattern of his heart. “I’m listening.” </p><p>“We both fuck him,” Marx says. </p><p>Jaskier makes a tight noise in his throat. “I was hoping that was going to happen anyway,” he manages, voice shaky. </p><p>Marx shakes his head. “I don’t mean I fuck him, then you fuck him,” he says, holding Geralt’s gaze. “I mean we <i>both</i> fuck him. At once.” He digs his fingernails into Jaskier’s hips, thrusts shallowly, just the once. “Would you like that, Julian?” he asks quietly, dangerously. “I know you like it when you’re fucked by as many cocks as you can take, one after the other. Would you like to be fucked by two cocks at the same time?”</p><p>Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever heard the sound that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth, half whine, half moan, full of madness and lust. “Gods, <i>yes</i>,” he groans. “Fuck, yes, <i>please</i>.” </p><p>Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, his gaze heavy on Marx. “If you hurt him,” he says, flat and blunt, “I will kill you. If you are doing this to hurt him, I will kill you.” </p><p>Marx groans. “That really shouldn’t be as hot as it is, Witcher,” he grinds out. “But I’m not an idiot. I don’t want to hurt him – well, at least, not like this.” He snorts. “I’ll break his heart by dethroning him, sure. But I’m not stupid enough to physically harm him.” He cocks his head to the side. “So, what do you say?” </p><p>“How?” Geralt asks. </p><p>Marx’s lips are curling in a smile. “He rides you,” he says. “I’ve spread him open enough for that already. And while you’re still in him, I spread him wider. When he’s wide enough, I join you in there. And then we fuck him.” </p><p>“<i>Geralt</i>.” </p><p>Geralt shushes Jaskier’s pleading, pressing his fingertips to his panting, spit-slick lips. “You’ve done this before?” </p><p>“I have.” </p><p>Geralt studies Marx a moment longer. Jaskier is trembling at his side, so full of lust, of want, of <i>need</i>, and Geralt knows that he thinks this will be fine, that he can take it, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t trust Valdo Marx, fuck that, but at the same time, the man has proved that he listens, that he stops when he’s told to, that he knows what he’s doing. </p><p>“Okay,” Geralt says, and Jaskier keens at his side. </p><p>“Excellent,” Marx says, pulling out of Jaskier and getting to his feet. “You might want to take your clothes off, Witcher. This will take a <i>lot</i> of oil.” </p><p>“Fuck,” Jaskier husks, but there’s nothing but anticipation in his scent. </p><p>Geralt does as Marx suggests, dropping his clothes in a pile on the floor, then sits back down on the edge of the bed and lies back. Jaskier’s still in the same position he was left in, legs trembling, cheek pressed into the bedspread, bound and blindfolded, and Marx helps him up, surprisingly careful given all the venom in his words, and settles him astride Geralt’s lap. Geralt steadies him, runs his hands up his chest, then says, “Do you want me to untie you for this?” </p><p>Jaskier pauses for a moment, considering. “Not yet,” he says, remarkably lucid. “It might get too much.” </p><p>Geralt hums, a little surprised that Jaskier can put so much coherent thought into it. “Tell me,” he says. </p><p>Jaskier’s lips curl. “I trust you,” he says simply. </p><p>Warmth floods Geralt’s heart, and he slowly shifts Jaskier’s hips until he sinks down fully onto his cock. Jaskier’s head falls back and he makes that keening noise again, rope-bound chest heaving, and Geralt allows himself just a moment of pleasure, just a moment to enjoy the feeling of Jaskier’s body tight around him, oil-slick and blazingly hot. Just a moment, though, because then Geralt feels Marx nudging his knees wide, settling between his legs. “May I, Witcher?” he asks. </p><p>Geralt breathes in and out through his nose. “Yes,” he grits out, and Jaskier moans. </p><p>Geralt expects oil-slick fingers, slow and stretching, pressing inside Jaskier’s arse along his cock. What he doesn’t expect is Valdo Marx’s fucking <i>tongue</i>, lapping at the base of his cock as much as at the stretched rim of Jaskier’s arse – and he chokes off a grunt in his throat, pushes his own pleasure down because, no, this isn’t about him. Jaskier has no such reservations, of course, and he garbles out a string of sounds that aren’t words, his thighs flexing around Geralt’s waist. Geralt steadies him as that bloody <i>tongue</i> keeps going, working deeper inside Jaskier’s arse – but that’s not enough for what Marx has planned, of course not, and there are the fingers, dripping with oil, spreading Jaskier open more, more, <i>more</i>. </p><p>Jaskier makes a whining noise, and there are tears on his cheeks again. Given there’s a cock and two fingers in his arse, that’s not that surprising, and Geralt presses his palm flat above Jaskier’s rabbiting heart. “Jaskier,” he says, steadying, centring. “Too much?” </p><p>Marx pauses, but Jaskier shakes his head. </p><p>“Slower?” Geralt asks. </p><p>“No,” Jaskier chokes out. “Gods, no, <i>fuck</i>.”</p><p>“Witcher?” Marx asks. </p><p>“Keep going,” Geralt orders, and Marx obeys. </p><p>Geralt watches Jaskier as Marx carefully works a third slippery finger inside, slow and teasing. Jaskier’s head is thrown back, his body littered with reddening bruises, ropes dug tight into his heaving chest, and his neglected cock bobs between them, head slick and swollen, a hairsbreadth away from coming completely untouched. He’s beautiful, Geralt realises with a start. He’s perfect. </p><p>“I think he’s ready,” Marx says, a tremble in his voice that Geralt recognises. </p><p>Geralt can feel his fingers working in and out of Jaskier’s arse, pressed up so close to Geralt’s cock he can feel his lute callouses, and he breathes in tight, runs his hands up Jaskier’s sides. “Jaskier,” he says. “Are you with me?” </p><p>Jaskier’s head comes rolling down, chin heavy against his chest. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I’m good.” He groans. “<i>Please</i>, Geralt. This feels incredible.” </p><p>“The ropes?” Geralt asks. </p><p>“They’re good,” Jaskier says, then pauses. “The blindfold.” </p><p>“Off?”</p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>Geralt reaches up, slides the blindfold off in one motion. Jaskier keeps his eyes closed for a moment, then blinks them open, looks down at Geralt, pupils blown so wide there’s barely any blue left. Affection surges in Geralt’s chest, warmer than any arousal, affection that’s blossoming into something more, something deeper – and all of a sudden it hits him. </p><p>That feeling. It’s love. </p><p>
  <i>Oh, shit. </i>
</p><p>“<i>Please</i>,” Jaskier says, rich with want. “Please, Valdo, <i>fuck me</i>.” </p><p>“Witcher?”</p><p>Geralt’s voice is hoarse. “Do it,” he says. </p><p>Marx’s fingers slide away, Geralt smells the bright scent of a fresh pour of oil, and then there it is, Marx’s cock, thick and hot and sliding inexorably into Jaskier’s arse, pressed flush against Geralt’s – and Jaskier throws his head back and <i>howls</i>. It’s not pain, though, no, it’s overstimulation and stretch and pleasure, yes, all of that, but there’s no pain. Jaskier’s panting, making incoherent noises, and Marx’s arms loop around him, hands skimming across his chest, pinching at his nipples, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his belly. “Want us to fuck you, Julian?” he asks, ragged. </p><p>“<i>Yes</i>,” Jaskier groans. </p><p>“Fucking <i>move</i>,” Geralt grunts before Marx even has a chance to ask. </p><p>Marx pulls out and thrusts back in shallowly, slowly. Geralt can feel Marx’s balls slap against his own, feel the head of Marx’s cock catch against his own <i>inside Jaskier’s fucking arse</i>, and, shit, fuck, he doesn’t think he’s going to last very long like this. “Fuck,” Marx grunts out, starting to thrust quicker, oil dripping down Geralt’s thighs, and his hand creeps higher on Jaskier’s chest, flexes loosely around his throat. “Can I?” </p><p>Geralt growls, bats Marx’s hand away and replaces it with his own. His hand fits to Jaskier’s throat like it was supposed to be there, like it was made for this, and he squeezes carefully, watching as Jaskier’s eyes roll back in his head, as his lips gape for breath. “Gods,” Geralt grunts, feeling his orgasm start to build in his belly. “Marx, touch him. Make him come.” </p><p>Marx’s laugh is breathless. “You hear that, Julian?” he whispers in Jaskier’s ear, hips pumping faster, faster, hand sliding down Jaskier’s chest. “You want to come for us?” Jaskier makes a strangled, breathless noise, and Marx wraps his hand around his cock. “Come for us, Julian,” he whispers, then buries his teeth in the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder, strokes his cock three, four times with rough, aggressive fingers. </p><p>Jaskier’s whole body goes rigid and he comes across Geralt’s chest and stomach, mouth open in a silent scream. His arse clenches tight around Geralt and Marx both, and it’s enough to send Marx spilling over the edge. Geralt feels the pulse of his cock as he comes, feels the flood of warmth around his own cock, feels Marx’s come dripping down his balls, his thighs – and then he looks up at Jaskier, blue eyes dazed, lips red, gazing down at Geralt with adoration in every line of his expression. </p><p>Geralt’s orgasm overtakes him, and he comes, hard. </p><p>Marx is the first to move, slipping out of Jaskier and sitting back on his heels. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and Jaskier sways without his support, unsteady, unstable. Geralt catches him, holds him up, then shifts, sits up, brings Jaskier to lean heavily against his chest. “Hey,” he says, feeling Jaskier’s breath heavy against his cheek. “You okay?” </p><p>Jaskier makes a mumbled noise in the back of his throat. </p><p>Geralt takes that as a yes. He carefully slides out of Jaskier’s, feels Jaskier press closer to him, burying his face in his hair, and he’s aware of the fact that this is how they ended the party in Cidaris, too, wrapped up in each other, covered in each other’s come – but then Jaskier shifts, sighs, and murmurs in a blissed-out haze, “Fuck, Geralt, I love you,” and it’s like Geralt’s heart just stops beating in his chest. </p><p>From the floor, Marx snorts. “Pathetic,” he says, getting to his feet. “It’s one thing to have a Witcher as a muse and a bedfellow, Julian, but to <i>love</i> one? No wonder your songs are full of such trash. No sense of class.” </p><p>Geralt’s heart is beating human-fast. “There’s water in the living room,” he says. </p><p>“I live to serve,” Marx says snidely, but does go to fetch the basin of water. While he waits, Geralt carefully undoes the knots, tossing the ropes away to the floor and carefully massaging sensation back into Jaskier’s cramped hands. Jaskier winces as blood flows back into his fingers, cries out a little as Geralt slings his limp arms around his shoulders, and then Marx returns with the water and a few clean rags and Geralt sets about cleaning them up. </p><p>Throughout, Jaskier leans heavy against his chest, eyes lidded, breathing heavy. He’s half-asleep, which Geralt supposes really isn’t that surprising. </p><p>When they’re as clean as they’re going to get, Geralt shifts, gets to his feet and lifts Jaskier with him. Jaskier stirs in protest, mumbles something about not being a child and not needing to be carried, but Geralt carries him anyway, takes him to the other bedroom—to <i>their</i> bedroom—and lies him down on the bed. </p><p>Marx follows him, somehow already wearing his trousers and boots, pulling on his shirt. “Do you need me to stay?” he asks, sounding supremely disinterested. </p><p>Geralt glances at him. “No.” </p><p>“Good,” Marx says flatly. “Can’t stand any of this emotional horseshit.” He eyes Geralt candidly, then says, “The next time the two of you are in Cidaris, look me up.” He smiles a gleaming white smile. “Or maybe I’ll see you at the marchioness’ party next year.” </p><p>“Goodbye, Marx,” Geralt says flatly. </p><p>Marx shrugs into his doublet, leaves it unbuttoned. “Goodbye, Witcher,” he says, slings his snakeskin bag onto his shoulder, and goes. </p><p>Geralt fetches a glass of water and a pear from the table in the living room, and goes back to Jaskier. He’s a little more awake, now, blinking lazily in the dimness of their room, and he smiles up at Geralt as he enters, bright and happy. “Hey,” he says, still a little sluggish. “Geralt.” </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and presses the water into his hands. “Drink.” </p><p>Jaskier does as he’s told without complaint, then reaches for the pear. “Don’t know about you,” he says, “but that was <i>good</i>. Gods bless Valdo Marx and his substandard musical talent.” </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt says, heavy with meaning. </p><p>Jaskier’s hands still, and he avoids Geralt’s gaze. “Sorry,” he says, jaw tight. “I was a bit of a mess at the end there. Said some things I probably shouldn’t have said.” He smiles, but it isn’t a happy smile. “Didn’t mean to ruin the mood.”</p><p>“Did you mean it?” Geralt forces himself to ask, jaw tight. </p><p>“Does it matter?” </p><p>“It matters.” </p><p>Jaskier looks up at him, expression inscrutable. “Then yes,” he says, chin tilted high. “I meant it.” </p><p>Blood thunders in Geralt’s ears, and he leans forward, runs his fingers along Jaskier’s jawline, catches his lips in a kiss that’s soft and careful and that he hopes says in actions everything he wishes he knew how to say in words. </p><p>When he pulls back, Jaskier’s eyes are wide. “Geralt,” he says shortly, then stops, tries again. “Do you—?”</p><p>“Yes,” Geralt says, quick and urgent and overflowing in his heart. “<i>Yes</i>.”</p><p>Jaskier stares at him a moment longer, lips red, bruises blooming in his skin, hair wild, fingermarks dark around his throat – and then his lips curve into a smile, a smile that’s so wide and so genuine it breaks Geralt’s heart before they’ve even begun. “Come here,” he says, and this time, when they kiss, it tastes of sex and pears and the promise of everything still to come.</p>
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